


Hypoxia

by Cinderstrato



Series: Midlife Crisis Halbarry [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, The Flash (Comics), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Sexual Content, Unrepentant Holiday-Themed Fluff, When Will My Green Space Husband Return From the War?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderstrato/pseuds/Cinderstrato
Summary: The holidays aren't always merry and bright.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Darryl Frye, Barry Allen & Iris West, Barry Allen & Itty, Barry Allen & Justice League, Barry Allen & Wally West, Barry Allen/Hal Jordan, Linda Park/Wally West
Series: Midlife Crisis Halbarry [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571473
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	Hypoxia

**Author's Note:**

> This is a loose holiday-themed sequel to "Slowing Down", set in the same 'verse three years after the events of that story. 
> 
> Warnings for a description of a violent crime scene involving a child, a description of the aftermath of a bombing/natural disaster, a dash of sexual content, and Guy Gardner being a cock-blocking jerk.

* * *

**HYPOXIA**

* * *

* * *

_Three casualties. One Caucasian female, GSWs to upper abdomen and right shoulder; found unresponsive by EMTs outside in the driveway of the family home, TOD 22:15. One Caucasian male, GSW to right temple, potentially self-inflicted; found on the floor of the garage. One child aged approximately 2-4 years old, GSW to head in indeterminate location; found in the back seat of the vehicle parked inside the garage._

“Guess somebody got into a fight with the in-laws over dinner, Allen.”

Barry glances over his shoulder at Captain Frye, who’s sporting the irritated frown and the twitching fingers of someone who desperately wants a smoke. 

“Guess so.” Barry offers him a brief smile and then goes back to his field notes. He doesn’t bother asking why Darryl’s come in so late. The captain covers the Thanksgiving on-call shift every year -- all of the holiday shifts, for that matter -- and he’s been that way as long as Barry’s known him. After he took Barry in, he didn’t seem to know what to do with a kid who associated every positive thing about the season with his murdered mother, so he’d gone to work instead. He’d even told Barry once that holidays were nothing more than vehicles for family arguments. Still, he had usually made sure there was a small gift for Barry to open or an extra roll of pocket money for him to spend; he’d done the best he could with the grieving kid who’d been dumped on his lap. 

Now here they are, thirty-odd years later, working the extended shift on Thanksgiving night. Barry doesn’t mind. Piecing together a crime scene is better than sitting by himself at home. Here he can be useful. 

Frye watches him for a moment before stepping over a few feet to where the three bodies, bagged and tagged, have been placed on a tarp to protect them from the snow’s moisture. His nose and cheeks have been slapped cherry-red by the frigid wind. 

Barry snaps one last picture and then removes the last of the marker placards, the bullet casings already sealed away securely in evidence bags. “Any luck with the neighbors, Captain?” he asks. “Has the family been contacted?”

“People heard the shots, a few called 911, but no one saw anything. Considering the size of the land lots, not a surprise. The lady’s father and brothers live in Keystone. They’re on their way to the station now.” Frye fiddles with the pen in his hand, clicking it in and out. “Has the coroner been by yet, Allen? Who’s on call tonight?”

“Lauren. She already went through with her photographer and signed off the bodies for bagging. They’re heading back to the morgue to get it prepped for secondary ID and the autopsies.”

“Mendez said you’re thinking murder-suicide.” 

Barry pushes himself to his feet and starts to strip off his latex gloves. The knees of his khakis are soaked through with the wet, icy snow. “That’s the running theory. No signs of forced entry in the house, no obvious signs of a robbery. There’s powder residue on the male’s hands, and the location of the entrance wound is consistent with a self-inflicted shot.”

“You got a timeline yet?”

“A crude one. I used the laser trajectory kit on the car. From the spatter and the angle of the holes, it looks like the female was shot first in the driver’s seat. Lauren counted at least three gunshot wounds, and none of them look like they’re in areas that would have caused immediate organ death. There are also some defensive injuries on her. She fought and then fled, which explains the blood trail from the garage. It would have taken a few minutes for her to bleed out enough to lose consciousness. I’ve bagged five bullet casings outside, so he continued to fire at her from the open garage door as she was running.”

“And the kid?” 

“At least one bullet directly to the head. I can’t give you a definite answer on whether he was shot before or after his mother, but my guess is after, just before the father turned the gun on himself. His body was found still buckled in his booster seat. Death would have been instantaneous, but with the amount of damage here, Lauren couldn’t tell how many shots were involved. You’ll have to have someone do a cranial reconstruction.”

Frye nods brusquely. He chews on the end of his pen, and Barry sees his bloodshot eyes flick over to the reindeer lawn ornament that’s still blinking merrily, casting red and green light across the grisly snow. “Pack it up, Barry,” he says at last, sounding tired. “Go home. It’s cold as a witch’s tit tonight.” 

Frye paces away to light up a cigarette. Barry crouches down to double-check the ID on the body bags before beckoning over the waiting EMTs to help load them into the ambulance. He carries the child himself. 

It’s two in the morning and an hour past the end of his shift when he finally decides to leave the lab, and then it’s only because his eyelids are starting to droop. Running samples while he’s tired could lead to the kinds of errors that give the DA’s office nightmares, so it’s time to call it a night. He painstakingly packs away the bullet fragments that Lauren sent up from the morgue and the blood samples he collected from the scene before he grabs his coat and waves to the security guards.

Barry drives home. He passes quiet neighborhoods and open streets, everyone tucked away digesting their Thanksgiving feasts and too many glasses of wine. His stomach rumbles, and he thinks longingly of Joan Garrick’s breadcrumb stuffing; he’s been trying to get the secret recipe from her for years to no avail. There won’t be any of that stuffing for him this year, since she and Jay are up in Manitoba visiting friends for the week. 

Still, he’s hungry. He makes a pit-stop at the nearest 24-hour grocery store. The young cashier gives him a pitying look as she scans his stack of pumpkin pies (they were 50% off) and a pre-made single-serving turkey dinner from the deli case. He’s amused by her reaction, and by the picture he must make: a middle-aged man with bags under his eyes and a festive leaf-patterned bowtie, clutching a veritable tower of clearance pies. 

He wishes her a good night and goes home. The house is dark and silent. He speeds around the kitchen, putting away his groceries, and finds a forgotten mug of tea on the counter. He pops it in the microwave. His mental exhaustion is at odds with the persistent energy buzzing under his skin, and he almost regrets not running home, if only because it would have taken the edge off his restlessness. He eats the tray of turkey and potatoes and stuffing (not nearly as good as Joan’s) standing there at the counter, swallowing without really tasting. Once the tea is done, he carries it into the living room with a fork and an entire pie. 

Barry sets them on the coffee table and slips off his ring. He triggers the ring’s latch, catching his suit easily as it unfolds, and fiddles with the cowl’s earpiece to boost the intensity of its built-in transmitter.

It’s rare that Hal is able to receive calls from Earth if he’s beyond their immediate solar system, but Vic’s been tinkering with an upgrade for their communication array that’s supposed to broadcast to most places within Hal’s sector. Vic says that it’s to the advantage of the whole League to be able to contact the Lanterns for emergencies, but Barry knows him well enough to understand that it’s mostly a favor for _him_. They all know how he worries about Hal.

He hails Hal’s personal frequency and waits patiently for a response. He gets static. Barry frowns, adjusting the tiny dial and toggling the switch off and on, which stops the static, but the line goes dead along with it. He tries twice more to no avail and then quietly puts the suit back into its casing, disappointed. He knew it was a long shot. 

Barry digs his fork into the pie. The second bite doesn’t taste as good as the first -- the pumpkin puree is bland and watery but somehow also cloyingly sweet. But hunger is still gnawing in the pit of his stomach, and he’s not about to waste food, so he sits in his silent living room and shovels it into his mouth until it’s gone and he finally feels full. 

He stays there for a while longer, nursing his tea and staring at the empty pie tin. 

The thing is, he knows that Hal’s busy, that his work is more important than a phone call. God knows he doesn’t want Hal to be distracted fretting over him either. It’s just . . . . 

It’s just that it would have been nice to hear Hal’s voice tonight, that’s all. 

But he’s fine. They’ve had longer separations than a mere six weeks, and they’re finally on the tail-end of Hal’s rotation. A touch of the holiday blues is probably to blame; he’s certainly not the only person who feels a little melancholy when winter rolls around. This time of the year is bittersweet. So many of his best memories are centered around his mom, and it still seems like something’s missing without her there to bake her special apple pie or sing carols with him. Now that his dad’s gone too, it feels especially empty. 

Still, there’s no reason to feel sorry for himself. Iris accompanied Wally and Linda and the twins to Linda’s parents’ place, but they’ll be back later in the week, and Iris always ropes Barry into whatever they’re doing, whether it’s Christmas shopping or cookie decorating or taking Irey and Jai to see the lights downtown. 

It occurs to him that he could put up the tree before bed, now that Thanksgiving is officially over. He finishes his tea and goes upstairs to pull out the artificial tree. At the very least, he can put up the lights and a few baubles, and then the house won’t feel quite so empty. 

Decorating the Christmas tree is a little ritual he always does alone. Hal’s not much for that stuff -- if he’s not off-planet, he’ll take Barry with him to Jim’s for Hanukkah, but that’s about it. He’ll happily serve as Barry’s cookie taste-tester or tag along to take Jai and Irey to see Santa, but holidays in general don’t seem to hold any sentimental value for him.

They make it work, though. Hal tolerates the profusion of Christmas paraphernalia, and Barry tolerates the presence of an intoxicated Oliver Queen in his house on New Year’s Eve. 

The attic is well-organized, and Barry finds the tree without any difficulty. He chooses a few strands of multicolored lights and one box of ornaments to start with, but he does move the other boxes closer to the door so they’ll be in easy reach. He brings out the rolls of wrapping paper too, because he inevitably leaves the shopping until the last minute possible and ends up scrambling to speed-wrap everything five minutes beforehand.

He has no idea what he’s going to get Hal this year. Hal is possibly the least materialistic person Barry’s ever met, which makes gift-giving a difficult task. If he can’t eat it or fly it, it ends up in a donation box. Barry tries to respect that, limiting himself to buying one small present and the chocolate gelt that he always hides in the pockets of Hal’s flight jacket. He thinks maybe it has something to do with Hal’s drifter years; he so rarely had a stable place to live that he got in the habit of letting go of possessions. 

It also means that Hal’s not good at giving presents either. Barry’s assured him many times that he doesn’t expect him to celebrate Christmas or participate in any of the traditions, and the horrific state of Hal’s savings account gives him heart palpitations as it is. Consequently, gifts from Hal almost invariably involve sex acts -- which is entirely fine by Barry, who already has too many knick-knacks and enough money to buy anything he needs or wants for himself anyway.

It does, however, make it awkward when someone asks him what Hal got him for Christmas.

Barry brings his haul downstairs and unpacks the tree. He doesn’t use his speed -- this is something that he likes to take his time with, arranging the branches and placing the lights as attractively as he can. He chooses a few special ornaments from the box: a popsicle-stick reindeer that Wally made in grade school, handmade waxed paper stars passed down from his grandparents, a blown-glass pickle, a snowman in a lab coat that Iris had bought him for their first Christmas together, a blue crystal dove that had belonged to his mother. 

When he finishes, he steps back to take it in. He looks at his tree, all lit up, and thinks of the blinking red-and-green reindeer in the blood-spattered snow. 

Barry flicks off the lights and goes to bed. 

***

“Hey, Barry?” There’s an odd note in Wally’s voice. “Could you come here for a sec?”

Barry pulls the lasagna from the oven, shifting out of relative time to nudge back the stool that Linda, her hands overloaded with a towering basket of rolls, is on course to collide with. He zips the dish safely to the table and then peeks into the pantry, where Wally was supposed to be fetching the extra napkins. 

Wally points wordlessly at the tiny pink alien perched on top of a can of baked beans. 

“How did you get in here?” Barry wonders, scooping it up carefully. He’s sure he shut the Ayries in the laundry room earlier in the afternoon; he always makes sure they’re contained before he has guests over. “You’re a slippery little fellow.” 

“What the actual fuck is that.”

“We’re babysitting for one of Hal’s friends.”

“Sure. Okay.” Wally still looks deeply suspicious. The Ayrie starts to vibrate gently in Barry’s palm, and Wally’s eyes widen. “Is that purring? Does it bite? Wait, does it even _have_ a mouth? Or a butt?”

“Wallace, please. You’re hurting his feelings,” Barry says soberly, and he has to bite down on his cheek to stop himself from laughing when Wally’s face falls. Something in his expression must give him away, though, because Wally’s abashed look quickly fades into realization and then mild annoyance. 

“You two are a bad influence on each other,” Wally grumbles. “If Hal starts wearing sweater vests, I’m gonna lose it.”

“Dinner’s ready!” Iris announces from the kitchen. “Anyone who isn’t seated at the table in the next three seconds doesn’t get to eat!” 

Wally’s gone, leaving nothing but a crackle of static electricity and a swirl of dust motes behind. Barry chuckles to himself and goes to put the Ayrie back in the laundry room. 

Itty still visits Earth occasionally to foist his latest litter of babies on Hal for safekeeping. They have four right now, recent additions to their household, but they’ve had as many as two dozen at a time. Barry doesn’t mind having the babies around – they don’t require any food or water or toileting, and they spend most of their time sleeping. They do have a worrisome habit of nesting in the laundry hamper but are otherwise exemplary houseguests. As much as he complains about Itty being a deadbeat dad, Hal is always sorry to see them go once they’re grown enough to leave orbit on their own. Hal’s gotten particularly attached to this litter and even claims to be able to tell them apart -- he swears that Eeeny is a lighter shade of salmon-pink than Meeny, that Moe is the one who likes to nest in Hal’s hair, and that Miney has one appendage that’s slightly crooked -- but Barry isn’t sure whether to believe him. 

The Ayrie in his hand -- Eeeny, maybe? -- drifts out of his palm and tries to latch onto Barry’s hair, but he keeps it trimmed too short for the babies to get a good grip. It floats back down and lets Barry put it with its sleeping siblings on the pet bed by the dryer.

Dinner is a lively affair, but not as lively as it would have been if Jai and Irey hadn’t been stuck at home with sinus infections. Barry is disappointed -- he baked and iced an army of gingerbread men for the kids -- but canceling wasn’t an option either; this is the only night they can have an early Christmas meal together, since Barry works on Christmas Day. Now that Wally is shouldering extra duties as the primary Flash and Iris is traveling more with her new position as Assistant Editor with _The Central City Observer_ , it’s getting harder for everyone to coordinate their schedules. 

Wally says as much, once everyone’s eaten their fill and the plates are being cleared away. “I swear, it’s like we get two new weirdos every month. There must be, like, a supervillain quorum.”

“Wally, tell them about that guy you fought last week,” Linda laughs, propping her chin in her hands. “He had a gun that shoots out quick-drying mortar. Guess what he called himself?”

“I can’t imagine,” Barry replies gamely. 

“The Bricklayer.” 

Iris covers her face. “And I thought ‘Captain Boomerang’ was the bottom of the barrel.” 

“Speaking of which, Barry,” Wally adds, “I may actually have to ask you to fill in for a few months for me later this year.”

“Of course,” Barry agrees immediately. It’s not that he misses the constant patrols, exactly, but it’s still a struggle not to suit up every time he catches sight of the newest crop of costumed rabble-rousers making trouble on the news. He wouldn’t mind a few months of being back in the saddle, just to make sure he stays in top form. 

“Are you going on vacation?” Iris asks. 

Wally and Linda exchange a glance, and then she says, “Not exactly.” 

As it turns out, Linda’s pregnant again. Wally beams with pride as Iris almost throws herself across the table in her rush to hug them. Barry offers his congratulations too, delighted at the prospect of more babies to spoil. 

Not wanting to keep the babysitter waiting, Wally and Linda beg off before the after-dinner coffee. Barry makes up plates of his cookies especially for Jai and Irey and hugs them at the door, waving as their car disappears down the block. Iris decides to stay for a while longer. He pours them cups of eggnog, and they sit on the couch to watch a movie. 

The topic naturally falls to the pregnancy. They argue about the statistical probability of another pair of twins -- Iris says no, Barry says yes -- and speculate about genders and names and whether or not Irey and Jai will be jealous of a new sibling. (Iris says yes, Barry says no.) 

Feeling festive, Barry pulls out a well-used copy of _A Christmas Carol_. Iris overrules him, claiming ex-wife privileges, and chooses _It’s a Wonderful Life_. 

Still pondering Wally’s news, Barry is only partially paying attention to the movie, but he does laugh as George and Mary fall into the swimming pool. He notices then that Iris isn’t laughing -- she’s looking out the front window. 

“Barry, are you expecting someone?” she asks. 

There’s a handsome, dark-haired man jogging up the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. It takes Barry a second to recognize him in civilian clothes. He knows Kyle Rayner in passing, certainly not well enough for Kyle to have any reason for dropping by his house on a Sunday evening, except -----

“Oh, God,” Barry breathes, and before Iris can stop him, he’s out the front door and halfway down the walk.

“Um, hi, Mr. Allen,” Kyle says. “So, I’ve got some bad news.” 

It feels like getting punched in the chest, like the words ought to have laid him out into the pavement with broken bones, but Barry stands very still. He feels Iris’s hand close around his wrist and squeeze. Her nails dig into his skin. 

Kyle scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I just got back from Oa. Hal wants me to tell you that he got pulled into another mission. It’s not a long one, only two more weeks, but he may not be back until after the New Year. He says sorry.” 

The breath leaves Barry’s lungs in a sudden burst, like a popped balloon. He thinks he should say something polite, or at least acknowledge that he heard what Kyle said, but he’s speechless. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Iris says sharply. “A word of advice, Mister Whoever-You-Are: next time, maybe lead with that first.” 

Kyle gapes at her, visibly shocked. Then comprehension washes over his face, and he takes a hasty step back. “Oh! Oh, _geez_ \--- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound like--- oh man.” He combs a hand through his hair, giving Barry a look of pure mortification. “Hal’s totally fine, I promise. He didn’t want you to worry.”

“No harm done,” Barry manages. Another two weeks. Still, Hal is alive and well, and that’s all that matters. “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate you coming all this way.” 

“I really am sorry, Mr. Allen.” 

Barry offers him a thin smile, his pulse finally settling; now that the moment has passed, he feels a little ridiculous for having overreacted. “It’s all forgotten. And please, call me Barry.” 

Because the poor man looks so guilty, and because Hal has always spoken very highly of him, Barry invites him in for some eggnog. The three of them chat a little, and Barry learns that there’s been a communications blackout in a disputed sector that’s been at war for over six thousand years, that John Stewart is getting promoted to a new position in the Oan Honor Guard, and that Mrs. Rayner has started dating someone whom Kyle heartily dislikes. 

They say goodbye in the foyer. Kyle apologizes a few more times, to the point where Iris finally shoves a baggie of gingerbread into his hands and strong-arms him out of the door. 

Barry closes the door and lets himself lean against it, just for a second, letting the residual fear drain away as his equilibrium is restored. Iris props herself against the wall next to him and sighs.

“Well. He gave us quite a scare, didn’t he?” 

Barry nods. “Thank God he’s okay.” 

Iris is looking at him intently. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“How do you do it? How do you handle having him go off for months like that, without so much as a phone call?” 

Barry considers the question. “Come on.” He guides her back over to the couch with a hand on her back. The movie is still playing. 

“It isn’t easy,” he admits, once they’re settled back in with their drinks. “I do worry. I don’t like knowing that I can’t help him out there, if something were to happen. He worries about me too. He worries that someday I’ll go into the speedforce and I won’t come back out. But it’s who he is, and it’s who I am. We make it work.”

Iris hesitates. “Maybe I shouldn’t admit this. It’s not something I’m proud of.” 

“You know you can tell me anything.” 

She glances down at her eggnog and then shrugs. “Here I am, having had enough of this stuff to think this is a good thing to drag back up. Okay. Don’t take this the wrong way, but while we were separated, I had suspicions. About you and Hal.” 

It takes barely a second for him to realize what she’s getting at. “We --- and what, you thought we were, that we were having some kind of . . . _affair?_ Iris!” 

“You would never,” she soothes, placating. “But I can’t say that I was inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt at the time, alright? I was angry and hurt.” 

“You were the one who asked for a divorce.” He bites his lip when he registers just how defensive he sounds. 

Iris rolls her eyes, resting her head against the back of the couch. “I’m aware of that, thanks. Look, I didn’t believe you would cheat, deep-down. I knew Hal wouldn’t do that to me either. It’s why I never brought it up. I guess what I’m trying to say in a very roundabout way is that I wasn’t surprised about you two. You let him in to that part of your life while you pushed me out. We never talked about it back then, and maybe we should have.” 

Barry’s quiet, thinking it over. 

He’s had almost fifteen years to re-evaluate what went wrong. Ultimately, their marriage wasn’t able to withstand the pressure of their separate lives, the weight of Iris’s unhappiness and his secrets. With the benefit of hindsight, Barry could admit now that he hadn’t been a very good husband. He’d been absent a lot, and he’d made unilateral decisions that should have been discussed with her first, justifying them as being in her best interest. But the truth was, he hadn’t been protecting her. He’d been shutting her out, so desperate to hang onto her that he’d disrespected her autonomy. And Iris had plainly admitted that she’d resented the Flash for disrupting their lives -- that it was Barry she loved, and the more Barry subsumed himself in his work with the League, the less she recognized the person she’d fallen in love with.

It’s funny, in a way, that it took a divorce to save their relationship. 

“We should have talked about it,” he agrees, “but I’m not convinced the real problems would have gone away if we had.” 

“It was inevitable, you mean.” 

“Well, there’s no way to prove that definitively. But . . . yeah. With the way we were back then, I think it was. We needed things from each other that we couldn’t get.”

“We had a good run, though, didn’t we?” 

“The best.”

Iris smiles, a little twinkle of mischief in her green eyes. Even now, she’s as beautiful as she was the day he first saw her. “I’m glad it’s working out for you and Hal,” she says. “You two look really good together.”

“I think so.” Barry takes a swig of his eggnog, a warm, pleased feeling that has nothing to do with the brandy settling in his chest. “So, since we’re apparently allowed to comment on each other’s relationships now, would it be weird if I asked if you were seeing anyone?” 

She laughs. “Oh, Barry, what about our lives isn’t weird? Ask away.” 

***

The Justice League spends the turn of a bright new year mired in the worst disaster to strike the tiny nation of Modora in a century. 

It will take days to piece together what happened -- a rogue branch of the separatist movement, a jury-rigged explosive, a gas line, an underfunded emergency response department, and a corrupt, ineffective local government -- but the immediate result is a city-state blown apart in its most densely-populated area and buried in a catastrophic avalanche triggered by the shockwave. 

The League’s vanguard arrives in a matter of minutes, but the damage is already done. It’s a race against suffocation and exposure as they dig frantically for survivors. Superman painstakingly melts vast swathes of empty snow with his heat vision and Wonder Woman hurls away chunks of ice and rebar at a tireless pace, but it’s up to Barry to burrow deep, tunneling through the mass as Batman directs him back and forth between the faint life-signs still pinging from the people trapped below. He drills through the compressed snow, any available flyers following in his wake to snatch up the victims. They pull out a dozen, then a dozen more, then a hundred. The rest of the League arrives, including the on-call and ancillary members. Those villagers who were fortunate enough to be inside a building unscathed by the explosion are rescued from peeled-back rooftops and ferried away to the nearest country for medical treatment. 

As the seconds stretch into minutes and, finally, into hours, they aren’t pulling shaken and injured Modorans out of their powdery prison -- they’re pulling corpses. There are burns and blown-off limbs, crush injuries and windpipes packed with snow, faces blue from a lack of oxygen. The loss of life, while less than could be reasonably expected, is overwhelming. 

After fifteen hours, the city has been excavated, the gas line shut off, all survivors admitted to the hospital or resting in make-shift shelters, and the bodies delivered to the coroners to be identified and mourned. 

One-by-one, the League disperses. Bruce, J’onn, and Clark plan to stay a bit longer to assist what remains of the Modoran police force until the military arrives to re-establish order. With several detectives already on the case, Barry decides that he’s outlived his usefulness here. His suit is soaked through; he’s cold, his metabolism and healing factor lagging noticeably -- the cuts and gashes acquired by using himself as a human battering ram aren’t healing, and he aches in every joint. Hunger is a cramping pit in his stomach. His left leg is throbbing like the hamstring muscle has been strained, and he fears he might injure it more severely if he tries to run back to Central. 

He surveys the ruins of the town until he spots Batman over by what was once an open-air market, sifting through a pile of charred debris with one of his chemical scanners. Barry leans against a piece of rebar to gather his strength before hobbling stiffly over to join him. 

“Could I catch a ride with you, please?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ll be running on this leg for a few hours.” 

After so many years working together, Barry has catalogued the meaning of most of Bruce’s various noncommittal grunts. The half-distracted _hmmph_ most likely indicates consent. He turns around and begins to limp towards the Batplane, but between one step and the next, he’s airborne. Barry yelps. For a wild, hopeful millisecond, he thinks that perhaps Hal has come home, but the lack of green and the husky laughter in his ear quickly disabuse him of that notion. 

“Forgive me, Flash.” Wonder Woman skillfully eases them into an air current as the white-capped mountain range shrinks beneath their feet. “As much as you’ve run today, you have more than earned your rest. I thought you might appreciate a more direct route home.” 

It’s one thing to scale a building or catch an updraft on his own power, the speedforce a living, fluid track gliding under his boots. It’s one thing to fly in a Lantern construct, surrounded on all sides by the solid mass of Hal’s unshakeable willpower. But being carried bridal-style in the open sky, with nothing between his dangling legs and the far distant ground? That’s another thing entirely. 

As deeply as he trusts Diana, it’s hard not to be hyper-aware of how easy it would be to fall to his death. He clings a little harder to her neck. She’s gracious enough not to remark on it, simply tightening her grip under his knees. It helps. 

Somewhat.

The sun is beginning to set as they touch down in an empty lot a few blocks from Barry’s house. Diana tells him to get some rest, and he waits until she’s gone before he walks carefully home. He’s so tired his eyelids are drooping, and he stumbles as he climbs the porch and finds his keys. He pushes open the door, already mentally going through the contents of his fridge and cupboards for the highest calorie foods, and stops dead in the threshold. 

The lights are on. The whole house smells like Chinese food. Someone’s in the kitchen, running the tap.

Barry’s eyes dart over to the coat rack -- there’s a familiar jacket hanging there, brown oiled leather and sheepskin. He stands still for an endless instant, not quite able to let his guard down when every nerve is still sparking with thwarted adrenaline. “Hal, is that you?” he calls.

“Hey, you’re just in time!” Hal’s voice is slightly muffled. “Chow’s ready.” 

“Hal?” 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” There’s another clattering noise and a loud swear from the kitchen. “Okay, before you get mad at me, I can explain. I was going to seduce you with a romantic dinner, but I forgot that the only thing I can cook is, like, frozen fishsticks, and fishsticks don’t exactly scream ‘romance’. You can probably tell where this is going. Long story short, I melted one of your spatulas and bought takeout from Dim Sum Palace. The only thing is, I’m short on cash so I might have possibly used your credit card. In my defense, I got you extra fried rice.” 

Barry sags against the wall, drinking it all in greedily: the bright fluorescent light spilling from the kitchen, the smell of sweet orange sauce and burnt plastic, the muted roar of a basketball game in the den, and, best of all, Hal. Hal is _home._

“Barry? You’re not answering. I’m kinda thinking that you’re mad at me.” 

Barry grins, pressing his cheek against the wall. 

A familiar tread crosses the kitchen, and then Hal is peering around the corner. “If this is about the credit card, I promise I’ll pa----Jesus Christ! What happened to your face?” 

Barry patiently lets Hal palpate the skin around his swollen nose. “It doesn’t feel broken,” Hal says, still frowning. 

“Just bruised,” Barry agrees, his eyelids drifting shut as warm hands slide up to cup his face. He turns his head enough to peck a kiss against Hal’s thumb. “Hi.”

“Hey. Come on, I’ll fix up your beautiful beak.” Hal pats his cheeks like Grandma Allen used to do when Barry was small. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Don’t lie, because I’ll find out, and then I’ll eat all the crab rangoon myself.” 

“I’m not the one who lies about whether he’s injured,” Barry protests, but his heart isn’t really in it. He lets himself be guided to the guest bathroom, pressing up close against Hal’s side, trying to hug him while Hal’s trying to keep them moving, and they both laugh when they get momentarily stuck in the doorway. 

Hal gets the water running in the tub, still chuckling, and then comes over to give Barry a proper hello. His kiss is barely more than a brush against the unbruised side of Barry’s mouth, but he squeezes Barry’s waist tightly, and they lean against each other while the tiny bathroom fills with steam. 

Barry starts to strip down, only getting as far as his cowl before the pain in his back makes him stiffen up. Hal helps him work the suit off his shoulders and down his back. Barry hears him suck in a quick breath. 

“You’ve got a hell of a bruise back here,” Hal observes. “Did someone throw you into a building?”

“I ran into a building. Well, what was left of it. It was hidden under twenty feet of snow.”

“That’s a new one. Hey, hold still for a sec. The zipper’s caught.” 

Between the two of them, they finally get the filthy remains of his costume off. Barry leans over to shut off the taps. 

“Bar. Is your ass sore too?”

“What? No. Why?”

A second later, he feels a pair of hands on his rump, squeezing appreciatively. 

“Sorry,” Hal says, not sounding sorry in the least. “It’s been two months.” 

Barry huffs out a laugh. Hal gives him one more hearty squeeze and then helps him sit down. The hot water burns against his cuts and scrapes, but it feels wonderful against the bruises and aching, overextended muscles. He hisses through his teeth as the water sloshes over his sore shoulder, tensing as Hal presses firmly around the joint of his shoulder and down the scapula, feeling for abnormalities. Hal’s other hand is a bracing weight against his stomach; he focuses on that instead of the pain.

Hal’s lips brush against his nape. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “It all feels okay. I don’t think anything needs to be reset.” 

Barry soaks for a minute longer before soaping up, the mud and dust sloughing off him in brownish-grey streaks. He empties the tub and refills it with clean water. Hal excuses himself, only to return with a cardboard box stuffed with paper cartons and styrofoam containers. 

“Order up,” Hal announces, setting the box on the closed toilet lid. “What do you want first? Soup? Sweet and sour pork? Dumplings?”

“This is the guest bathroom,” Barry says, pained.

“I don’t see any guests, do you? Eat. You’re shaky. Your blood sugar has to be shot to hell.” 

“Hal, that’s disgusting. Here, just let me -- We should eat at the table.” The knowledge that he could be done with his bath and sitting fully-clothed at the table in less than a second isn’t quite enough to get him moving. The hot water feels so good, and the thought of getting back out -- even for takeout -- is almost unbearable. “Give me another minute, I’ll get up.” 

“It’s fine. God knows you spray this place down with so many chemicals that we’ll both get cancer before we’re sixty.” 

“We can’t eat in the bathroom,” Barry says firmly. “And that’s a terrible thing to say.”

Hal rolls his eyes and continues to unpack the cartons. He really did buy a lot -- in fact, it looks like he ordered at least one of everything on Dim Sum Palace’s menu. Part of him is touched that Hal wants to feed him up, but the other part of him can’t get past the fact that _they’re in the bathroom_. 

“Hal, seriously.”

“Look,” Hal says, “I respect and appreciate your commitment to making sure we’re not living in a frat house, aside from you getting pissy with me if I make the bed with ‘the good guest linens’, whatever the fuck _that_ means, but you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a trash compactor, so please indulge me for once and eat before you pass out in the tub.” 

Barry starts to get up. It’s more of a struggle than he expected it to be, his strained leg flaring up with pain. “Just give me a minute, we can---”

“Fine. I’m going to eat all of this right here, right now.” 

There’s a crinkling noise and a soft _snap_ as Hal unwraps a packet of complementary chopsticks.

Barry sits back down as Hal opens one of the cartons. The smell is heavenly. “Hal, don’t.”

Seeing the challenging glint in those brown eyes, Barry knows he’s already lost this battle. That doesn’t deter him from offering resistance; just because they’re dating doesn’t mean that he allows Hal to run roughshod all over him. A man has to have his principles. 

Without breaking eye contact, Hal pinches a huge wad of cashew chicken and shoves it into his mouth. He doesn’t even like cashew chicken. That’s _Barry’s_ cashew chicken.

 _"_ Hal!"

Of course Hal ignores him, stuffing another mouthful of fried rice in his bulging cheeks, because he’s a forty-three year-old child. Barry’s stomach rumbles again. Hal places the carton tauntingly on the rim of the tub, swallows with some difficulty, and then says, “Your move.”

Barry grudgingly takes the carton, looking at the grains of sauce-flecked rice that are already tumbling off of Hal’s lap onto the nice, clean bathroom floor. It feels intrinsically wrong -- his mother would have a conniption if she knew her child was eating greasy takeout in the bathtub -- but as soon as he gets his first taste of steaming, salty, savory rice, all his standards go out the window. He inhales the food as quickly as he can without choking. 

Hal eats a carton of chow mein and a handful of dumplings, but everything else he passes along to Barry, including an unreasonably large side salad that he must have bought at the corner store, because he remains convinced that Barry doesn’t eat an adequate amount of vegetables. Barry consumes everything he’s given, and his body’s clamoring insistence that he’s in imminent danger of starving to death is finally placated. 

The water’s gone murky again, so Hal drains and fills the tub one more time while Barry shampoos the grit out of his hair. 

“I feel like I don’t need to ask how your day was,” Hal remarks conversationally, giving the new brand of body wash Barry purchased a dubious sniff. “I called the Watchtower to see where you were. Dinah said it was Modoran separatists.” 

“There’s not much of Modora left,” Barry says. 

Hal looks at him for a moment and then puts the bottle back with a shake of his head. “Damn. You know, I actually hope Sonar made it out okay. I always sort of liked that crazy bastard.” 

Barry rinses his hair, blinking the suds out of his eyes. 

“Everyone’s okay, though?” Hal prods. “The League? They must have called in all the heavy-hitters. Did the UN give you any trouble for going in?”

“I don’t know,” Barry says. His throat feels a little tight, suddenly. 

There’s a pause. “Did something happen?” Hal asks.

“It’s been a long week, but it’s fine now. I’m glad to see you.”

“Are you talking to me or the loofah?”

Barry reluctantly lifts his gaze. Hal’s watching him soberly, his elbows propped on the rim of the tub. 

“What happened?” Hal asks again. His dark eyes are steady and serious, and Barry wants to look away but can’t quite manage it. He’s been caught. 

“Barry?”

He’s aware of how fast and loud his breathing has become, but the more he tries to control it, the tighter his chest feels. Is he having a delayed allergic reaction to all the concrete dust and debris? Should he have gone to the Watchtower after all? He flails his arms blindly, reaching for Hal. 

Hal’s hand cups the back of his neck, squeezing. “Hey, hey, _hey_. Easy, sweetheart.” 

Maybe it’s the tension release of being safe and well-fed after an arduous mission. Maybe it’s the rare endearment, because neither one of them are much for sappy pet names. Maybe it’s just the sheer relief of not being alone. Whatever it is, Barry finds himself blinking away tears.

“Shh, I’ve got you.” Hal pushes aside the debris of their dinner, and then his arms are around Barry’s wet shoulders. “Come here, Bar, I’ve got you. Baby, it’s okay.”

Barry buries his face against Hal’s shirt, twisting the fabric in his fists as he shakes. 

“Is everyone okay?” Hal murmurs into his ear. “Iris? Wally?”

He nods. Hal’s hand strokes up and down his back, keeping his instinctive urge to escape into the speedforce at bay. His younger self would have apologized for blubbering over something as routine as a relief mission. He would have been mortified by his loss of control, his indulgent display of emotion. He might have been ashamed to cry in front of Hal. But he’s not a young man anymore, with a young man’s insecurities and ignorance. He understands now that there isn’t any shame in grief or any weakness in sharing it. He lets himself cry while Hal holds him, and haltingly he describes the rows of bodies that even his speed couldn’t save, the broken skeleton of a thriving city, the hair-raising screams of the survivors who had been brought to safety only to discover that their loved ones had not. He asks Hal, in half-stuttered bursts, how a man could shoot his own child in the head while his wife bled out in the snow. 

Hal rubs his back and listens, indifferent to the water soaking through his shirt, and soon Barry’s tears dry up, two months of tension expelled in a liberating paroxysm. He’s wrung out, exhausted to the point of falling asleep in the tub. Hal helps him up and towels him off, hovering as Barry wearily pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt. He lets himself be led to the den, where the basketball game is still on TV. 

He stretches across the sofa, his head pillowed on Hal’s lap, and he’s asleep before he has a chance to find out which teams are playing. At some point, Hal nudges him awake long enough for them to go upstairs to bed. The clean sheets and the dark, quiet room lull him back into unconsciousness almost immediately. 

Barry wakes up again in a cold sweat, left with the lingering panic of violent, half-remembered dreams. He realizes that Hal’s been talking to him, his voice soft and careful -- he stops when he realizes that Barry’s awake. Barry's damp forehead presses between Hal’s shoulder blades as he pulls him closer. He forces himself to breathe slowly, focusing on the heat and weight of the body in his arms, letting the dread ebb away with every measured exhale. 

Hal doesn’t ask if he had a nightmare; they both have them frequently enough to know better than that. Hal’s fingers caress his forearm, and he doesn’t say anything. Barry tucks his face into the warm crook of Hal’s neck and rests. 

“Bar?” Hal mumbles. He slots his hips back, pressing his back more firmly up against Barry’s chest. “Did Kyle tell you I’d be late?”

Barry nods, rolling his forehead against the divot of Hal’s shoulder blade. “I thought,” he says, very quietly, “I thought something had happened.” 

The stroking on his arm pauses. 

“I appreciate that you wanted to make sure I wouldn’t worry. But when I saw him I thought---Well, it doesn’t matter now, I suppose.” 

Hal’s silent. Barry squeezes his waist, wanting him to know that he isn’t angry. After all, Hal doesn’t get angry at him when he disappears, ducking out on their plans for another shift at the lab or leaving their bed at three in the morning to work a crime scene. They’re both married to their jobs, and part of loving each other is living with uncertainty and absences.

“So, funny story,” Hal says, just as Barry’s starting to drift off. 

“Is this a story that I’ll find funny, or just one that _you_ think is funny?” Barry asks. “Because I feel obliged to remind you that stories that involve you almost dying in the vacuum of space aren’t funny and never will be.” 

Hal kisses the back of his hand. “No, this one’s good. Nothing dies except my dignity. John’s been mentoring this new Lantern, Ysmet. An interesting fella -- very quick with their constructs, extremely friendly. They’re from Caaz Beta, which is basically Planet Fish-People. Aquaman would love it there. 

“Anyway, John introduced Ysmet to Kyle. I guess Ysmet’s some sort of art curator in their civilian life, so the two of them hit it off. Ysmet got a crush and decided to ask Kilowog to give them the dish on Kyle – you know, trying to see which way the wind blew – and Kilowog was steamed at Kyle for flaking out on monitor duty, so he wasn’t inclined to put in a good word. The thing is, he’s picked up a lot of Earth slang from hanging around us all the time. He told Ysmet that Kyle ‘talked out his ass’. Well, the Caazvari aren’t big on figures of speech, and the ring’s translator codex tends toward direct word-to-word translations, so you can imagine how they took that. 

“But they’re a smart cookie, and they decide to do some research. The Guardians have, like, zilch in their databanks about human biology, because Earth’s the trailer park of the universe. John’s home on leave, and I’m on rotation at the Central Battery. So Ysmet talks to Guy.” 

Barry covers his mouth. 

“Of course, Guy thinks this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He tells them that no, that’s not the norm for Terrans, but poor Kyle is a special case, born with a rare developmental defect. So now Ysmet’s sad, because as nice as Kyle is, a butthole-mouth is kinda off-putting.” 

“Oh, Lord,” Barry groans, bracing his arm against his sore back. “Please don’t make me laugh.” 

“But they’re suspicious of Guy and decide to get a second opinion. After rotation, I’ve got them coming up to me looking shifty and asking me these pointed questions about human anatomy. Swear to God, I start thinking they’re hitting on me.” 

“Oh, Hal, no.” 

“Yeah. So I’m letting Ysmet down easy, giving this speech about how I’m flattered and I’m sure they’re a heck of a fine being and anyone would be lucky to have them but I’m in a committed relationship, and the whole time they’re just trying to figure out where Kyle’s asshole is.” 

Barry turns his face into the pillow and laughs. Hal brays along with him, loud and unselfconscious, and Barry feels a flush of heat that has nothing to do with the cozy nest of their bed. Ridiculous. Hal’s life is ridiculous, and Barry loves him. 

Hal is so warm, and he smells so good, and it’s been _so long_ since he’s been home that even exhaustion and the remnants of the nightmare aren’t enough to dampen Barry’s stirring interest. He feels a sudden surge of desperation to be close to Hal, to reconnect after their long separation. He untangles their bodies enough to seek out Hal’s mouth; Hal kisses him back languidly. 

It escalates quickly, which is pretty much par the course. Barry is determinedly sucking a row of bruises into Hal’s neck, grinding against his backside, when he feels Hal squirm away. 

“Stop,” Hal says, a little short of breath. 

Barry pulls back immediately, concerned. He can count the number of times Hal’s said no to sex on the fingers of one hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just give me a sec. Not in front of the kids.” 

“What?”

Hal sits up, and Barry realizes that one of the Ayries is curled up in Hal’s hair, tethered to his bangs. Hal prises it off as he gets out of bed. Barry can hear him clucking apologetically all the way down the hall to the laundry room. 

In a few minutes, Hal is back, slipping back under the covers and into the little-spoon position he was in before. They make out a bit, but before long they’re moving together in a rhythm, going from zero to sixty before they’ve even had a chance to take off all of their clothes. 

“Is this good?” Barry pants. He doesn’t really want to leave the bed to go searching for a condom, and besides, this is what he wants most, to be as close to Hal as he can, their skin touching from head to toe. 

“Mmhm, I’m good with it.” He starts up a sinuous rolling motion that has Barry clutching his hips and scrambling to press himself as close as possible. “Nothing like a little of the ol’ bump-and-grind.” 

“Please never say that again,” Barry groans, half-laughing against Hal’s shoulder. 

“Say what? The ol’ bump-and-gr----”

Barry cranes over to kiss him hard.

It grows hot and humid under the blankets, the sheets damp with sweat, and the bed frame shudders as the pace reaches a fever pitch. Barry’s already on the edge, his body overwhelmed with desire and anticipation. “What do you need? What can I do?” he asks, half-desperate. 

“Your hands,” Hal moans into his ear. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about for two months. Please, Bar.” 

“Of course, of course,” Barry soothes, reaching into his briefs. “I’ll take care of you.” He adjusts his grip and vibrates his entire hand. Hal arches against him, keening low in his throat. 

It doesn’t take much more for either of them, as keyed up as they are after their separation. Once he’s caught his breath, Barry zips off their sticky underwear. He fetches a washcloth from the bathroom and spare boxers from the dresser and has them both tucked under the covers clean and dry almost before Hal can blink. 

“That’s my favorite trick,” Hal says, grinning. He stretches onto his back and then groans when his knee pops loudly. They both chuckle. “Feel better?” 

“Mmhm.” Barry settles his cheek into the curve of Hal’s chest, stroking the damp brown curls at the vee of his hips. He closes his eyes, shifting his head until he can feel the pulse of Hal’s heartbeat. “You know,” he says idly, “you never told me whether or not Ysmet got a date with Kyle.” 

“Because I don’t know. Kilowog promised to keep me and John in the loop.”

“You’re a bunch of gossips.” 

Hal shrugs, looking unperturbed by the accusation. Barry smiles, pressing his nose into the hair on Hal’s chest. It’s starting to go gray like his temples, like the white strands that are just beginning to show at the nape of Barry’s neck. 

How nice it would be, he thinks, to grow old with Hal.

“Damn it,” Hal says suddenly. “I missed Hanukkah. Jim’s gonna be pissed.”

“He’ll understand.”

“I missed the New Year’s party too. Shit. Ollie always has the good booze.”

Hal’s been gone for a long time, and he just made Barry come so hard he saw stars. Barry’s inclined to be generous. “We can have a late New Year’s and invite him and Dinah over,” he offers. “Tell him we’ll take care of the food if they do the drinks, and I bet he’ll bring the top-shelf stuff.” 

“You’re serious? Bartholomew Allen, you’re a genius. I can already taste that champagne.” 

“And I can already hear Oliver calling me a suburban crew-cut fascist,” Barry says, without any bite. 

Hal tips his chin up, giving him a warm look and a very tender kiss. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

It’s ridiculous, but Barry feels his cheeks heating up. He can’t help it, not when Hal looks at him like that. “Well, don’t thank me yet. I’m leaving the tree up for a few more weeks, and you still have to open your presents.” 

“Sure,” Hal says agreeably. “I’ve got a present for you too.”

“Does it involve orgasms?”

“Yes.”

Barry laughs, relaxing into the mattress as Hal pulls him a little closer. His eyelids are starting to get heavy again, and Hal’s breathing is deepening and slowing too. He lets himself drift off, secure in the knowledge that Hal will be here when he wakes up, and they’ll catch up on all the things they missed. They’ll eat the last of the leftover Christmas cookies, and they’ll probably take a trip to see Hal’s brother and his nieces and nephews, and Barry and Dinah will have a nice conversation while Hal and Ollie make drunken fools of themselves, and maybe they’ll open up a few presents. 

All in all, it’s not a bad way to start the year. 

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
